


Nighthawks

by luthorienne



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Please take the warning about descriptions of violence seriously.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:16:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luthorienne/pseuds/luthorienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rainy night on the way to work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nighthawks

Clint considered himself a connoisseur of diners after a lifetime on the road: the converted Airstreams that are mostly one long counter and a flattop grill; the storefronts that might once have been drugstores with a lunch counter; the repurposed gas stations, pedigree still obvious in the shape of the stucco building, streaky brown linoleum laid over subfloor laid over concrete, booming hollow above the old greasepit; small-town places, tucked in on Main Street between the hardware store and the barber shop, torn vinyl banquettes carefully repaired with duct tape. They smelled like coffee and hot grease and onions. They had Formica-topped counters with squeaky swivel stools, and coffee, and assorted pies, and club sandwiches and chicken salad that might or might not be the death of you, and the blue plate special of the day was something like a breaded veal cutlet or a Salisbury steak with instant mashed potatoes and overcooked canned vegetables. Unless you were quick on your feet and asked for the gravy on the side, your plate would be drowned in it. The waitress’ name was Madge or Eleanor or Ralph, and coffee would be served in a thick white china cup, gone matte around the rim from decades of dishwashers and other people’s lips. 

This one was a storefront place on a nondescript corner in a midsized town in the centre of flyover country, and it smelled of rancid grease. Clint was twenty-two hours without sleep, and looking at a minimum of five more hours on the road before he could hope to reach his destination, where he would find and kill a man supplying lethal chemicals to a HYDRA lab in Nevada. He hoped he’d get a chance to take a nap first, because otherwise he was going to have to drive at least another three or four hours before he’d feel comfortable standing down. His pickup was parked under a streetlight, clearly visible through the front window. He’d taken the end stool at the counter, his best sightline to the door, the kitchen and the street. No-one should be expecting him, but he was still alive because he never underestimated the power of random chance. 

The waitress – Darlene, as it happened – brought him coffee without being asked, and handed him a menu in a slick plastic sleeve bound in soiled red canvas. He ignored it, flashed her a smile he hoped was boyish, and said, “What’s good, darlin’?”

“Cheeky,” she said, but she was smiling. “The meatloaf isn’t bad. Stay away from the veal; it don’t smell so good.”

“I’ll have the meatloaf, then. What’s your pie today?”

“We got apple, lemon, cherry, raisin and pumpkin. I rate the pumpkin right up there with the veal.”

“Can I have a slice of raisin?”

“Mashed or fries?”

He thought about the rancid grease. 

“Mashed. And could I get the gravy on the side, please?”

“Sure thing, sugar. You want some soup? We got minestrone or chicken rice.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll have the chicken rice.”

It was hard to fuck up canned soup, he reflected, and just in case she was wrong about the meatloaf, he’d have something hot to be going on with. ‘Minestrone’, in his experience, was a shorthand word for canned-broth-and-whatever-didn’t-sell-yesterday.

“Quiet night?” he asked as Darlene set his soup before him, a cellophane-wrapped packet of crackers jostling the soup spoon for room on the saucer. The broth was pale gold and steaming, the rice a little heap in the centre of the thick china bowl. She refilled his coffee cup.

“So far,” she said, “but we’ll have a rush in an hour or so.”

Clint glanced at the clock above the kitchen hatch. Coming up to 8:00 p.m. That’d be about right. He’d get to his target about two, maybe three in the morning if he took a nap. The deep trench of night. He didn’t expect the job to take long, so he could be well on his way by four. 

There was an elderly couple lingering over coffee in a booth near the door, and a teenaged kid in an unconvincing faux-leather jacket at the other end of the counter, picking at his acne and the remains of a plate of fries as he read a paperback book. Darlene strolled over to collect the kid’s empty milkshake tin as Clint crumbled crackers into the soup. 

As expected, it was canned, but it was hot, and he realized how hungry he was as he began to eat. His last actual meal had been a corned beef sandwich and coleslaw he’d eaten for lunch in Vancouver the previous day. Since then, it had been airport and gas-station snacks: chips and soda, bottled water, a packet of jerky and some kind of chocolate bar with peanuts in it that had been as close as Clint could get to protein on that particular stretch of Interstate. He’d expected to get a meal on the helicarrier, but they hadn’t even given him time to debrief properly before they’d pushed him out on this run. And fuck, now that he thought about it, he still had that paperwork to do. 

“—water, hon?”

Startled, he glanced up at Darlene. He shook his head.

“Sorry, I was zoned out for a minute.” And that was a problem. The nap would be imperative; he was off his game.

“Do you want a glass of water?” Darlene repeated. 

“Um. Yeah, thanks,” he said. 

She set it on the counter, taking his soup bowl and the cellophane from the crackers. Across the room, the street door opened and a woman came in with a young boy, perhaps six or seven. They took a seat in a booth near the elderly couple, who had begun to gather their coats. Apparently the old folks were regulars, joking with Darlene as they paid their bill. Clint leaned his forearms on the counter and watched idly in his peripheral vision as Darlene walked over to take the woman’s order. The boy was scowling, and Clint wondered for a second if he was being ill-treated, but there was no evidence of it: they were both well-dressed and clean, no visible contusions, and the woman looked more exhausted than angry. Probably just a rotten kid, then. He glanced out the window at the truck, seeing raindrops sparkling on the glass. Add another thirty minutes to the drive. He sipped his coffee, now lukewarm.

Darlene refilled it as she set his plate in front of him: a thick slab of savoury meatloaf, two icecream-scoops of unfluffy mashed potatoes flanked by a bowl of brown gravy, and a slotted spoon’s worth of peas and carrots which had apparently been simmering since about the time Clint ordered his corned beef in Vancouver. It was more or less exactly what he’d been expecting, and he smiled at Darlene as she poured his coffee and set a ketchup bottle in front of him. 

“Smells good, darlin’,” he said, and she returned his smile, casting a glance at the woman and the child. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re happy,” she said quietly, “’cause that young fella over there needs him a good dose of veal cutlet, you ask me.”

Clint let his smile broaden. 

“Got some attitude on him, does he?”

“Treats his Mama like dirt. My Mama’s 86, and if I spoke back to her like that, she would wear me out.”

Clint shook his head.

“Never a good idea to sass your Mom.” Clint’s mother had died when he was six. No doubt he’d had his share of tantrums, but his only memories of her were of the three of them, him and Barney and his mother, cowering in the face of his father’s drunken temper. He took a bite of the meatloaf. “Wow – good call. This is great.” 

Darlene smiled.

“Yeah, Jimmy does a pretty good meatloaf,” she agreed. “You good to go?”

“All set,” he said, addressing himself to the plate. “Thanks.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she replied, patting his arm as she went to deliver the check to the kid with the fake leather coat. 

He could see why the old folks would be regulars here: nothing on his plate was likely to challenge his capacity to chew, and it was all pretty tasty, actually. The potatoes were actually potatoes, though Clint would have described them as more smashed than mashed, and although he was pretty sure the gravy had come from a can, it was hot and savoury and not too salty. He’d been a line cook in Gibsonton for a couple of months one year when the circus had been in winter quarters, and he knew how fast a pot of gravy could go south. 

“You want some ice cream with that, sugar?” Darlene asked as she delivered his pie. 

“No, thanks, I’m good.” 

“You enjoy that, now,” she said, and went to deliver menus to a couple just coming in the door. Maybe she was right about the rush picking up. 

He dribbled gravy over the last bite of his mashed potatoes and turned his attention to the pie. The crust was too thick, but the filling was rich and sweet. He’d just taken his second bite when a crash near the door had him on his feet, facing the room, his gun in his hand. 

Luckily, all eyes were on the booth with the woman and the boy, where the child was now having a full-blown screaming tantrum, his dinner upended on the floor, his plate smashed, his mother crying and scolding with rage and humiliation. As Clint swiftly replaced the Glock in the holster at the small of his back, a burly man in a white t-shirt and a stained apron – Jimmy, presumably – came barreling out of the kitchen, shouting. The couple that had just come in went right back out again.

Clint sank carefully back down on the stool, allowing the chaos to wash over him, breathing slowly and deeply and clasping his hands hard for a moment while the adrenaline rush passed. Eyes shut, he was suddenly transported to

_the checkpoint, the gates, the hot wind sucking water out of his eyes and mouth and skin and the sand gritty in his teeth and his socks and probably up the crack of his ass, goddammit and the woman with the two crying children in her arms, please, they’re hungry, we need food and water, please help us, please and the orders don’t engage the locals don’t feed them don’t feed the kids they have parents, don’t let them in and there’s a reason, he gets it, but they’re hungry and they’re right there, and fuck he was supposed to be relieved in ten minutes and he has orders he has to say no, he has to try to chase her away, he has to say no and she’s crying and begging and just when he thinks she’s going, she turns and takes out a gun and he almost has time to think fuck she’s going to shoot him when she shoots herself, God, shoots herself in the head and he’s splattered and the children are splattered and they’re screaming and now they’re orphans so he can feed them and_

“—kay, son?”

He managed not to startle again, but he opened his eyes to find Jimmy and Darlene both looking at him with wary expressions. For a second, he could only look back at them [Jimmy and Darlene; the diner; right]; then he found a smile somewhere and pasted it on, a raggedy-ass thing that he was pretty sure wasn’t fooling anybody. 

“I’m sorry. Just startled me.” At least he’d put the gun away before they saw it.

“Well, no goddamn wonder,” Jimmy grumbled, watching through the front window as the crying woman marched away down the street, child in tow. “That little hellion needs his ass kicked.” He went to the kitchen hatch, still keeping an eye on Clint. “Andy? C’mon out here and help clean up this crap before the rush.” Darlene slipped past him to help a skinny man in a much dirtier apron – probably the dishwasher – take a mop to the mess on the floor as Jimmy returned to the counter, leaning toward Clint. His knuckles on the grey Formica were scarred and swollen. “You a soldier, son?” he asked quietly.

“Marine,” Clint replied. Jimmy nodded.

“I thought you had the look. I was in ‘Nam. You’re too young for that.”

“Iraq. Afghanistan.” And Bistritz last week, and Vancouver, yesterday.

Jimmy shook his head.

“Don’t matter where; it’s all the same ugly. You okay? You got work?”

“Yeah, I’m good. I’m – I have a job.” He stood, feeling grateful that his hands had stopped shaking. He had to pull himself together, for fuck’s sake, get his shit in a pile. “You folks do breakfast?”

“Seven a.m. You’re earlier than that, come around to the kitchen door. I’m here by six most mornings.”

“Thank you. I’ll do that.” He put a worn twenty-dollar bill on the counter – that would be a good tip for Darlene – and shook Jimmy’s hand, noticing the older man noticing his trigger callous. 

“What line of work you in, son?” he asked. Clint smiled, meeting the knowing look in the man’s eyes. 

“I’m a collector,” he said. Jimmy’s smile widened.

“Yeah. Okay. You drive careful, now.”

Twenty minutes later, he had acquired a full tank of gas, used the gas station bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, looking reproachfully at his own black-circled eyes in the mirror. There would be no nap now. He was going to drive straight through, kill his man, and come back to Jimmy’s for breakfast. He’d sleep when he got back to the helicarrier. And when he’d been sleeping awhile, that Afghan woman would come out of his closet, as she so often did, and climb up and sit on his chest in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> I find movieverse Clint’s character quite fascinating. He’s attractive, funny, smarter and more articulate than many fan writers seem to believe, ultra-competent and surprisingly well-adjusted (or at least faking it pretty well) considering his canonical origins. And yet, at the core of the attractive special agent lives a killer – a wolf, if you will. He’s tasted blood, and he will seek it out again when he must. How does a man like that interface with the day-to-day world? How does he fall in love? I don’t think I’ve figured out the answers yet, but I’m having a lot of fun trying, and I hope you enjoy my attempts.


End file.
